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The face not mine—but one I will wear to kiss all my lovers good-night: the way I seal my father’s lips with my own & begin the faithful work of drowning.
Fernanda Cisneroshar citeretfor 9 måneder siden
How a horse will run until it breaks
into weather—into wind. How like
the wind, they will see him. They will see him
clearest
when the city burns.
liahar citeretsidste år
No, a man
bending over his son
the way the hunted,
for centuries, must bend
over its own reflection
to drink.
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Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once.
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Maybe we pray on our knees because god
only listens when we’re this close
to the devil.
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Don’t you know? A mother’s love
neglects pride
the way fire
neglects the cries
of what it burns.
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Everyone’s shouting or singing and he can’t tell whether the song is for him—or the burning rooms he mistook for childhood.
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He laughs but his eyes betray him. He laughs despite knowing he has ruined every beautiful thing just to prove beauty cannot change him.
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I open my eyes. His face between my hands, wet as a cut. If we make it to shore, he says, I will name our son after this water. I will learn to love a monster.
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He moves like any
other fracture, revealing the briefest doors. The dress